


It's My Fragile Fiction

by ShanleenKinnJaskey



Series: author's favorites [18]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: ADHD, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a happy ending?, Anxiety Disorder, Depression, Eating Disorders, Gen, acid reflux
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-22
Updated: 2015-05-22
Packaged: 2018-03-31 18:22:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3988102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShanleenKinnJaskey/pseuds/ShanleenKinnJaskey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lovino Vargas has a history of ADHD and anxiety disorder. He's sinking into a state of emotional change and he has no idea how to deal with it. His only confidant is his best friend, Antonio, who also has problems of his own. Lovino feels like he's dying inside, and he has no idea how to deal with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's My Fragile Fiction

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheGoliathBeetle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGoliathBeetle/gifts), [myfivemeters](https://archiveofourown.org/users/myfivemeters/gifts), [cammie511](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cammie511/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Believers in Blind Faith](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3364181) by [TheGoliathBeetle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGoliathBeetle/pseuds/TheGoliathBeetle). 



> So, I wrote this to deal with my own life, and I'm not exactly sure how to explain everything. I'm sorry if it doesn't make any sense, but I needed this. So please don't flame it or anything- I know it's not the best, but I tried.

_“I stare at my reflection in the mirror_

_Why am I doing this to myself?_

_Losing my mind on a tiny error,_

_I nearly left the real me on the shelf_

_No, no, no, no_

_Don't lose who you are, in the blur of the stars_

_Seeing is deceiving, dreaming is believing,_

_It's okay not to be okay_

_Sometimes it's hard, to follow your heart_

_Tears don't mean you're losing, everybody's bruising,_

_Just be true to who you are…”_

_-Jessie J,_ Who You Are

 

Lovino sits at the computer, staring at the blinking cursor.

> _They stared into each others’ eyes, wondering at the fate that had brought them together. Somehow, across the millennia, the two of them had finally been reincarnated at the same time. It was a sign from above, a final twist in the tapestry of destiny._

He groans and erases the entire paragraph, resisting the urge to scream at another failed attempt at his masterpiece. Nothing is working nowadays; nothing felt right to him. He has tried so many times to write this one scene, but it doesn’t work. The words have no spark, no feeling to them.

Kind of like life recently, in a way- unreal, unfeeling, only interrupted by occasional bursts of anxiety and colorful emotion.

No wonder he’s had trouble sleeping lately. Instead of giving in to fatigue, he’s spent hours into the night planning and thinking, writing scenes in his head and organizing characters until midnight or later. A good night’s sleep is a distant dream to Lovino, a memory barely retained in the edges of his consciousness.

His stomach grumbles and he looks down. _Oh, right,_ he thinks absently, rubbing a hand over his stomach, _Forgot about that._

He often does- he’s gotten used to the constant quaking and trembling of a never-quite-satisfied stomach.

He walks out of his room, makes his way around the corner and into the kitchen of his mom’s small house, and opens the fridge. He glances over most of the food before settling on pasta. He doesn't bother warming it up before digging in- he just needs food and wants to get it out of the way before his little brother Feli gets home from baseball practice with their mom.

An hour later, after multiple more failed attempts at continuing to write, a math worksheet done, and the kitchen swept, he finds himself in the shower with stomach acid etching its way out of his throat as liquid cascades out and over his teeth, forming little yellow and orange trails in the water that flows down the drain. He sighs after the last came out, resting his head against the cool tile of the shower wall. _Just another day in paradise_ , he thinks (almost bitterly, but not quite), eyes falling shut for a moment before he has to get out.

He has to be in bed by the time his family gets home, but he has to savor any moment he got to himself. These moments, all alone, are gifts, and he doesn't want to waste them. It doesn't matter that these stolen moments alone are accompanied by the nasty taste of bile in his throat or these bursts of frustration and anxiety- they are his freedom from expectation, from reality.

It's his fragile fiction.

* * *

ADHD. That's what Lovino was diagnosed with back in fifth grade, when he was taken from the pediatrician, his normal doctor, to another doctor. He can't really remember anything about the second doctor anymore other than the fact that it took the second doctor's evaluation to cement the diagnosis. He'd been prescribed Aderall, a common med, and then sent off with orders to come back soon for check-ups.

He'd done fine for the first year or so, weathering through his parents' divorce and moving into two separate houses. He helped out with his little brother, met some new kids and some old kids at middle school, and mostly stayed out of people's way.

He'd always liked school- in fact, it had been his refuge since second grade, when they'd moved across state borders- and it became even more of a sanctuary as time went on. There wasn't anything wrong at home (far from it, in fact), but no one understood his and his passions. He loved to read and loved history- his family loved sports and was good at math.

And of course he got jealous of his brother Feli over the next couple of years when Feli brought home trophies from baseball and football, sometimes for making "Academic All-Stars" but sometimes just for participating. Feli was perfect, good grades, great at sports, obviously on a fast track to a good girlfriend and good high school... and the kid was only in fourth grade by the end of Lovino's years in middle school!

Lovino, on the other hand, did okay. Sure, he got into the History Bee in eighth grade, and sure, he nearly won the Read-A-Thon in sixth, but his mediocre record at turning in homework overshadowed all that. He knew that he had a bit of a problem, but he always managed to clean up by the end of the nine weeks with great test scores and a bit of rushed late work turn in.

Not that anyone noticed the near-miracles he managed to pull off-he shrugged them off as if they were nothing, so that was how people dealt with them. It was just what they expected- smart little Lovino Vargas making straight As and Bs. Getting good grades was normal, and when he didn't turn in homework it was just a sign that he didn't care, not that he'd actually forgotten. No one believed that line once you hit middle school, no matter how true it really was. Saying "I forgot" was a cry for attention, not a plea for answers as to why you couldn't focus for as long as everyone else when it came to anything except dusty history facts and imagined worlds. Crying when scolded was immature, not bottled emotions spilling through in the only way you knew how.

But by the end of middle school, Lovino had figured out (even if it was just subconsciously, with no mention of it or admittance to a problem on the outside) how to control his true emotions, and keep himself focused for the most part in class. He had built a shield around himself, disguising anxiety with a sharp tongue laced in poison, and a question about self-worth with a brash, barbed personality.

He breathed a small sigh of relief when he was taken off of the medicine at the end of eighth grade. He dropped Zoloft, which he had been taking as well, and figured that he was finally back to normal. He'd made it through middle school and had come out a bit tougher but otherwise okay, and he no longer needed drugs to stay focused.

He was fine, and he was normal, and he had plenty of fascinating ideas for books blooming in his mind. There was nothing wrong anymore, and there was nowhere to go but up.

He just didn't realize that this story, the one he told himself everyday, was only his fragile fiction.

* * *

The class laughs, and for the moment Lovino joins them. He isn’t above laughing along with a bit of “dad humor” (which meant overused puns and movie references that the class only got half the time) from Mr. Jones, his history teacher. He likes Mr. Jones’ way of teaching- it teaches his favorite subject in a more interesting way. In this class there are no random bursts of anxiety when someone asks a question he doesn’t know the answer to, unlike at home, and he feels comfortable smushed into the edges of a group of people. Maybe it’s because the room is dark, the dim light of the projector the only illumination in the room, and smallish, and the walls are papered in posters on history and modern maps about Europe in the 1500s. He feels normal yet smart, as he knows more than most kids in the class. After all, you learn plenty of useless facts when you read the History textbook for fun.

But then the lights came back on, and they have to leave. Lovino’s self-preservation instincts kick in, honed from years of practice, and he keeps himself from getting too attached, too involved in other people’s lives. It’s easier that way, less painful when everyone inevitably ends up leaving. They all move away in the end, going on to more popular and more powerful friends. It’s a constant, one of the harsh truths of life that he’d learned early on.

“Hey, Lovi!” Antonio bounces over to Lovino’s side as he packs up, practically exuding enthusiasm from his very pores, “Did you see last night’s episode of Doctor Who?”

Okay, so maybe Lovino hasn’t done the best job at pushing everyone away. He knows that if he stays away from others, makes himself a lone wolf, it becomes easier to keep a distance between himself and painful reality, to keep his fragile fiction from being shattered by the chaotic currents of a world he doesn't want to take any part in, but somehow he can't quite achieve this. He can’t quite tear himself away from people, no matter how hard he tries. He can tear the words from the tip of his tongue, rip out the instinct to   
scream   
and whisper   
and complain   
and argue  
about his pains and anxieties with the world, but in the end it makes no difference.

He can’t stop himself from being pulled in by the magnetic sway of Antonio and his classmates. There is always a part of him, the human part, the still normal part, that is curious about what these people know, how they manage such normality, and yearns to join them in their normal, happy lives.

It’s the part that threatens to break his fragile fiction.

* * *

_“Hey, Lovino, look at this. The Humanities Specialty Center at Hetalia High- that sounds just like you. Why don’t you fill out an application?”_

_“Fine, Mama, I’ll look at it in a minute. Just let me read a little more, okay? The end of the chapter’s nearly here.”_

_“Okay, Lovino. Just think about it, okay?”_

_“Si, si.”_

_…_

_“Look. Lovino, an envelope came from Hetalia High. Open it already, please!”_

_“Yeah, yeah, Feli. Just give me a moment already. You know you’re being irritating, right?”_

_“Yeah, you tell me that enough. Just c’mon already and tell me if you got in!”_

_“Here, here, I’m opening it, okay?...Look, I got in. Are you happy?”_

_“YAYY, LOVI GOT IN! MAMA, COME LOOK!”_

_“Be quiet, fratello. I’ll tell her.”_

* * *

“Are you okay, Lovi?” Antonio asks, sitting down at the lunch table next to Lovino, worry evident in his voice.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Lovino says, not tearing his eyes away from the surface of his cellphone and the fanfic he is currently reading. He still loves reading as much as he did before, but books are becoming a bit bulky compared to his phone.

(Though nothing could ever compare the smell of a new book)

“You sure? ‘Cause you look a bit triste to me, Lovi,” Antonio says.

Lovino sighs, pulling out an earbud as he turns to look at Antonio. “I’m just thinking. This is my thinking face, Toni. How many times do I have to tell you that?”

“Si, I know, but I just wanted to make sure. I don’t like seeing my friends depressed. I know what it’s like to feel that way, and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.”

Lovino takes out the other earbud, a morbid kind of interest piqued against his will, as well as a certain concern he hasn’t felt in awhile. “What do you mean, Toni? Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Antonio says in between bites of his tomato (Lovino has never quite understood his obsession with the fruit, but he’s never been too bothered by it), “It’s just that I got back from the psychologist last night. Last of my check-ups. You know, I used to have an eating disorder. Still have a bit of depression, though,” He grins at Lovino, “Not that you can tell, si?”

Lovino just stares at him, dumbfounded, as Antonio sits there, smiling happily at him as if Lovino’s world hasn’t just been rocked a little off the center. Antonio, the nicest, happiest seeming guy he’d ever met, has depression? Had used to have an eating disorder? What is this world coming to?

Why do people insist on poking at his fragile fiction?

* * *

_Peppy, bouncy, annoying: “Hola, my name’s Antonio. What’s your name?”_

_Gruff, a bit annoyed: “Seriously, idiota? I’m wearing a name tag.”_

_Honest, sweet, almost a bit sickening: “Oh, si! So your name is...Lovino Vargas! Oh, that’s a pretty name!”_

_Blunt, a bit callous: “Are you trying to be annoying?”_

_Surprised: “No, señor! I was just wondering if you and your sophomore mentor wanted to grab lunch with me and mine, Yao.”_

_Resigned to his fate, but tentative at the chance of meeting new people: “Okay, I guess.”_

_Calling out excitedly to a friend: “Hooray! Yao, Lovino and…_

_Exasperated, rolling his eyes: “-Elizabeta.”_

_Continuing without pause: “Elizabeta are coming over to eat with us! Scoot over for the my new friend!”_

_Sigh, then muttered comment: “...Idiota.”_

* * *

Sometimes when Lovino is with other people, everything just goes away. He feels nothing- the constant press on his chest is gone, and the steady stream of thoughts running through his mind just dissipates. He sits there, feeling nothing. It's not depressingly black (He rarely gets that way. Most of the time when he has a 'surge', as he calls them, it's red anger, yellow excitement, or green anxiety. Mostly the last one, though), just...grey. There is no one, nothing is important. He is just another body on the planet, and for a little while nothing can trouble him.

But then he comes out of it and he's just as bothered by the periods of no emotion as he is by the surges and the vomiting. Why can't he feel like everyone else, connect to the world like other people? Why does he have to go through these ups and downs, through this spectrum of emotions?

One moment he'll be like this, no emotion at all, and the next he'll be awash in the red of anger, tinged with a splash of blue and the smallest bit of black, as he rants to Antonio for his guaranteed once-a-month cry fest. It's the one time he allows himself to let go, to connect with someone outside of the self-doubting, paranoid voice in his head. He hates himself for this moment of weakness, but these minutes with Antonio seem to be the only thing keeping him sane.

It seems like that’s been happening a lot more lately- these breakdowns during which Lovino can’t help but just sob, and weep, and cry. Sometimes accompanied by big snot bubbles and great, heaving gasps, and other times silent, just a steady trail of tears falling down his face. Most of this happens at night, when he’s alone, and there’s no one to hear him whisper long, drawn out prayers and complaints to an unseen Lord or see him curl up into his sheets, staining the fabric with salt water tainted in unspent emotion. This is black and blue, like a bruise forming after an injury, and this is what he does to get rid of these ‘surges’ of emotion. He’s heard of cutting, and drug abuse, and so many other ways of getting rid of everything, but none of it appeals to him. This is _his_ escape, his way out.

And then he will spend hours reading or planning or plotting, trying to get tired enough that he will enter the realm of dreams, where he can forget everything. He will eventually fall asleep, drained and spent, and pass into the night’s gracious embrace.

Then, when he wakes up, all of the black and blue is gone. He’s greeted by a blank slate, mixed with just the smallest bit of sleepiness and crankiness that will hopefully wear off by the time he gets to school. Six in the morning at Mama’s, and five thirty at Papa’s? Who in their right mind thought up the wonderful idea to wake up high schoolers at such a god-forsaken time?

But all this is building up, wearing at his fragile fiction.

* * *

_“Lovino, you seem a bit disorganized, and you’ve missed a few homework assignments lately. Do you think we need to go back on your medicine?”_

_“I don’t think so, Mama...I think I’m good. I’ll pull up my grades, okay?”_

_“Okay, angioletto. Just know I’m here for you if you need it, okay?”_

_“Si, Mama. You tell me it everyday.”_

_“Just making sure.”_

_…_

_“How was your day, Lovino?”_

_“Fine, Papa. And yours?”_

_“Normal. Grazie for asking, compagno.”_

_…_

_“Just shut up, okay? Just drop it, Feli, I don’t want to talk about it!”_

_“I hate you, Lovi! Why can’t you just tell me why you’re so upset?”_

_“Fine, you idiota! You want to know why I’m upset? It’s because I can’t remember a damn thing! I’m forgetting all kinds of stuff I would normally remember, and it’s scaring me, okay, fratello? Is this what you wanted to know? Is this what you wanted to hear?”_

_“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean...”_

_“No, of course you didn’t. You never do.”_

* * *

Lovino walks home from the bus stop on Thursdays- which is a lot farther than it seems, as his bus stop was the library two and a half miles from home because the specialty center had to deliver kids all over the county- and this particular time he’s having a texting argument with Antonio. He’s listening to his music, and bouncing between colors. Every time he looks at a text, discovers every time he’s ignored Antonio without realizing it, or put himself in front of his friend’s needs, or the fact that the time he chose to sit in the library for lunch with Antonio instead of in the cafeteria Antonio was in the library because of things people were saying about Lovino, he feels black and blue. But then he clicks off his phone and walks some more, listening to music, and he feels purple- happy and fine. Then he picks up his phone again when it vibrates in his pocket, and he sees another response, and he feels blue. Deep, dark blue, as he types out a response, sharing the truth.

That he says rude things to push people away.

That he repeats the same facts because he forgets who he said them to before.

That he has no idea how to properly communicate with people, and the reason that every conversation he has with Antonio turns into a contest is because he just wants to be good at something, even if that something is being bad at something.

That the reason he fanboys all the time is because he is scared about sharing his own ideas, scared of getting rejected.

That he’s no one’s number one, that everyone has someone else that is more important to them than him.

That he feels _worthless_.

Lovino lies to himself. He knows, deep down, that he has problems forgetting things, and that he has problems with anxiety. He won’t admit it to anyone, won’t share his fears. Sharing this one text with Antonio is probably the bravest thing he’s ever done, the most he’s ever tried to stand up for himself and do something.

And yet, it probably won’t make a difference. As the conversation winds down, as they both send messages of peace and friendship to each other, he returns to the gray and purple, that peaceful emotion. It’s as if nothing has happened, as if he has not just destroyed most of the walls he built between him and Antonio.

This... _this_ is the reason behind his fragile fiction.

* * *

“Lovino?” His Mama says that evening as they wind down their conversation. They’ve been grappling over something- the credit program for the trip to Costa Rica with his Bio teacher- and he’s ready to finish and go to his room, where he can finish reading that fanfic and go to bed. The night has been good (they had pasta for dinner, and Feli was gone all night at a friend’s), but he’s ready to go to bed. “Can you please go get some ice cream?”

Lovino nods and goes off to the kitchen. He gets everything ready, cleans up, and comes back to the sofa to find his Mama scrolling through his text messages, and he sees she’s on Antonio’s. Something inside his chest freezes up as he realizes that their text conversation is still pulled up. He curses himself mentally for never deleting anything as she looks up at him when he turns the corner around the sofa, and in that moment he realizes that everything is about to come undone, and he can't move because oh god oh god she knows and he'll never get out and this is the end

“Lovino,” She asks, “Do you really feel worthless?”

He sets the bowls down on the floor and sits down on the table. He takes a deep breath, trying to organize his thoughts in a way that he can protect everything, make it all go back to normal, but in the end he can’t. Everything spills out- the forgetfulness, the emotional swings, the crying, the finding out of how much he’s hurt his friend, and everything else and more. The two of them go back and forth, sharing and crying and wasting tissues. It is horrible yet relieving to bare himself to someone else to their face, to cry and rant and just talk to his Mama, to be able to spill everything he’s been keeping inside.

And his fragile fiction finally breaks.

* * *

There are moments in which we can convince ourselves of lies we know we don’t believe in. Like the lie that we’re fine, that we’re normal or like everyone else. ‘Cause we’re not- we’re all a bit broken, with our own problems and fears we have to deal with. We can’t stop these things from happening, but we can try to fix them when they do.

We lock our hearts away behind walls of iron and steel so that they never get broken or hurt, but if we walk through life like that then we'll never know the joy of truly believing in someone, trusting them. We protect ourselves from loss and sorrow, keeping ourselves closed off from everything that could possibly hurt us, but we unintentionally close ourselves off from anything impossibly amazing that could fall into our hands from above.

We'll never know love or warmth if we keep our inner selves locked within these cold, dark rooms that we call our starving hearts.

**Author's Note:**

> Leave kudos or comment if you liked it, and constructive criticism if you don't.


End file.
